


On the Steps of the Park

by DarlingBosie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:20:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3629676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlingBosie/pseuds/DarlingBosie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Protest goes wrong, everyone's in jail. I just like ExR.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Steps of the Park

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this might be a trainwreck because I started it on very little sleep and have no plan so gl. I keep editing in details so I hope it's better than when I first posted it.

Enjolras thrust his fist into the air. “This has to stop!” he cried to the large crowd whose attention he had commanded for the duration of his speech. “We are not slaves! _You_ are not a slave! _You_ are not a slave!” The crowd went wild as he pointed at them, driving home his point about raising the minimum wage. Sweat beaded on his forehead, as the flannel he wore was too hot for this weather. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who stood with him and who knew the important of a handsome figurehead, had dressed him that morning. His red and black plaid shirt, which was unbuttoned at the top to reveal a small patch of light chest hair, had the sleeves tucked up over his elbows. His skinny black jeans clung to his meaty thighs like a second skin or a temptation. Along with his blond curls framing his head like a halo, it was no wonder that most of the movement within the crowd were those in the back pushing to get a closer look at the boy whose words and body were so captivating. “We need to live! We deserve to live! Take it from the pigs!” 

The crowd picked up that phrase and chanted it over and over, snorting and screaming and rocking with excitement. From the side, police officers were stationed, waiting to be sure that the demonstration didn’t turn into anything violent. Enjolras stood back and watched the crowd’s energy take his words and turn them into a prayer, into a demand. A lopsided smile played on his lips, bringing out the dimples on his cheeks. His eyes were proud of his work and proud of the people, and, seeing they pleased the blond angel at the top of the steps in the park that June day, their chants grew louder. 

“I think this is going well,” Enjolras said, turning to Combeferre.

“They’re definitely listening to you,” he replied, catching Courfeyrac’s eyes. The two knew that, without them, Enjolras was a pretty face and a pretty speaker, but they made him into a complete package.

Very suddenly, a voice from the crowd yelled something different. Then the chanted shifted. “Knock it down! Take it from the pigs!” they screamed, and the mob turned to a statue nearby of some man who had been important to the city in days gone by. With the strength of hundreds of agitated people put together, the mob pushed and pushed, against Enjolras’ pleadings for them to stop. The cops were surrounding them now, calling for order, but the mob was too far gone. The billy clubs came out.

Courfeyrac jumped down the steps, running into the crowd with a rashness he was known for within the group of friends. A fight had broken out between police, who were doing their jobs, and the civilians who were unconsciously fighting to impress the blond angel. Combeferre followed him, and Enjolras raced behind. The statue toppled over amidst a cloud of pepper spray.

When the air cleared, there were only a few left behind. They were all brought into custody. Enjolras was shoved into what he thought must be a paddy wagon because of its size, but his vision was blurry with tears and pain.

“Combeferre? Courfeyrac?” he choked out as the doors were closed. His panic was heightened, knowing that his snow white skin would keep him from danger, but that his friends’ brown skin could have kept them from being as lucky.

“I’m here.”

“Me too.” Their voices shook with the experience they had just had, but Enjolras felt an enormous weight lift from his shoulders. He didn’t feel the pain as intensely as he had, and eventually it slipped away unnoticed.

Everyone was brought into a waiting room when they got to the station and left there as the cops got the paperwork together. Enjolras’ vision was returning. The fluorescent lights stung a little, but he took in his surroundings. Those arrested were sitting on hard wooden chairs in a line against the wall. Straight ahead was a desk where a cop was furiously attacking a donut. Enjolras peeked around. On the left, he was sitting beside a tall, thin redhead whose gigantic, round eyes were still closed tightly. On the right was a bald black man whose head was bleeding profusely down the side of his face. He was the only one of the group that was injured like that, and when the cop came in through the swinging doors, he came with dressings for the wound.

“Unlucky fella, ain’t ya?” the cop asked as he started dabbing hydrogen peroxide on the gash.

A short brunette to his far left stood up, wobbling unsteadily without the use of his handcuffed hands. “Huh-uh,” the cop warned. “Sit down.”

“I’m a med student,” the brunette protested. “I’ll take care of him. I’ll do it, Bossuet.”

“No, you're gonna _sit down_ ,” the cop threatened, heading over toward the wobbling boy. 

The cop reached for his radio when Bossuet whispered, “Joly, it’s fine. Just sit down.” He strained voice made it clear that the slightest sound was difficult for him. Joly, with a face that would make one think he were the one bleeding from the head, sat down and the cop finished dressing Bossuet’s wound.

“That’ll bleed through in a minute,” the cop said, taking a look at his handiwork. “Keep your head up and don’t touch the bandage.” He went back through the doors, and the boys were left in silence.

“Enjolras, are you alright?” Combeferre asked. 

“Yeah,” he replied, seeing that the two had been sat next to each other on his far right. “You?”

“We’re both fine.”

“Jesus, does everyone know each other?” a rather large Asian man asked. He wiped blood from his mouth and put his hands back in his lap, getting a little blood on the redhead’s jeans in the process. “Well, hi, I’m Bahorel if you care.”

“We don’t,” the redhead snapped back. Bahorel smiled at the redhead's quip, but he didn't reply.

“I’m Feuilly,” said another brunette on the other side of Bahorel. The two began to talk, leaving the rest of the room in complete silence.

“I’m Grantaire,” came one last voice. Between Bossuet and Combeferre was a muscular black-haired boy. His tan arms were covered in tattoos.

A cop came through the door. “Alright, everyone to their cells. Follow me. You can call someone to come bail you out, or you can spend the weekend in jail, because you can’t leave until Monday if you don’t go now. Bleeding kid, you're gonna stay here while some paramedics take care of that cut."

They were brought into a holding cell, two to a cell. Enjolras was placed in with Grantaire, who took his cot on his side of the cell and laid down. The cop took the redhead to the phone first.

“You act like you know exactly what to do,” Enjolras said, realizing too late that perhaps that was the wrong thing to say.

“Yeah, well, this isn’t my first rodeo," he replied, staring at the ceiling. "You gonna get bail?”

“I don’t have anyone to call.”

Grantaire looked surprised. He turned to Enjolras. “A pretty boy like you? Nobody?”

“My friends are here.”

“Still. No girlfriend? No sugardaddy? C’mon, you can’t tell me you don’t use all that against people.” Grantaire sat up then, leaning his elbows on his knees and staring intently at the blond.

“Use what?”

Grantaire gestured up and down. “ _That._ "

Enjolras looked down, then back up at Grantaire, who finally realized the blond was absolutely clueless and a little creeped out. 

“Nevermind,” he said quickly. “You’re good-looking, is all I mean. Like, I don't know, a Greek god or something. You could get things from people looking like you do. Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just thought you knew.” 

Enjolras looked back down at himself. He brushed a flustered hand through his tangled hair. “Oh. Thanks.” 

The cop walked in again with the redhead and Bossuet, who, when upright, was far over 6 feet. His face and head were cleaned of blood, but his shirt could probably not be salvaged. He smiled, though, now that he was cleaned up, and nodded happily to one of the cells, probably where Joly was. “Alright, everyone is free to go,” the cop said. “Your bail has been posted. And I would thank Jehan, if I were you.” 

The redhead stepped forward, his dark brown eyes shining even though they were still bloodshot. “Wanna go to the bar?” 

This is how Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac met Jehan, Feuilly, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire. 


End file.
